the weekly


I started out running the nation,
With a spring in my strides and my step,
But I wilfed into wild aggravation,
As I filled up with power and pep.

You search like a saint for the answer,
You hunt for the meaning of man,
But, wilfing, you turn to a chancer,
And depart from the primary plan.

She sailed into uncharted waters,
As a woman who'd joined the Royal Navy,
But, egged on by wilfing reporters,
She sold her whole story for gravy.

We want to be loyal as sherpas,
To reward all the voters who backed us,
But, wilfing, we lose sense of purpose,
And wind up like amateur actors.

You want to believe how unnerving
Their capture was, wilf to Baghdad,
And you see them instead as self-serving –
Was a fortnight in chokey so bad?

They want to be seen as defenders,
With integrity no-one could pilfer,
But they turn in a flash to pretenders:
What else, in the world of a wilfer?


A new word, 'wilfing', has been coined. It means surfing the internet, and being drawn into searching sites never originally intended. The word is based on the phrase What Was I Looking For? Navy personnel sold their stories of Iranian capture to the media.

This is the one hundredth Weekly Poem.

10 April 2007


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